I fully recognize my stupidity in this post. A swim diaper is a disposable garment specifically designed to be porous, allowing liquid to freely flow from inside to out without absorption. It’s a poop catcher with an interesting backstory.  A diaper retains all.

However, at the end of yet another day struggling to be all things to all people, a distracted father could be forgiven for mistaking a “Dora” Swimmie for a “Mater” Pull-Up. Putting a diaper on a 3-year-old is akin to bathing a cat, minus the claws (another story for another time). It’s all about getting it done, by whatever means necessary.

Yes. I actually purchase undergarments featuring this guy.

My son may be 3, but he insists that he is actually “5 years old”, just like his big sister. And so he naturally assumes that he too is capable of going all night without accidentally emptying his bladder all over his cozy bed.

But while he is most certainly precocious and insisted on going potty like a big boy at the tender age of ~2, he is not currently equipped with a big boy bladder. So every night we go through a protracted series of negotiations, cajoling and misdirection to get him into a diaper or Pull-Up. We should be more consistent, but under duress, any old diaper-like object will do.

Enter that damnable Swimmie.

My son appeared like an apparition by my bedside somewhere in the vicinity of 2 am to report a wet bed. A cursory diaper check for wetness revealed nothing (duh. Swimmie does NOT retain liquid).   Given his proclivity for taking his water bottle into his bed and spilling it, I erroneously assumed there was no crisis. I sent him back to bed.

“I had sent him back to sleep in his urine-soaked bed. Not once, but twice.”

Sometime later, he returned. Same issue, wet bed. This time I stumbled after him to inspect. Again, a portion of the bed was indeed wet, but nothing smelled like urine and his diaper was dry.  So I made up another spot on the bed for him to sleep and tucked him back in.   Dad #fail.

Upon cold light of day — and under the hard scrutiny of my lovely wife — the facts of my failure were laid bare. My son had indeed wet his bed. I had sent him back to sleep in his urine-soaked bed. Not once but twice.  My son was, understandably, out of sorts for the rest of the day, the fallout impacting many and ranging wide.

Now you know why this blog is called #AskBadPapa.